


Sunrise

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only witness Blake wants to his death is the sunrise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunrise

Every morning Blake wakes early to watch the sunrise. Black becomes purple, becomes red, becomes pink, until the sky is a pale shade of blue. He watches until the dew dries and he can feel the warmth of the sun through the window.

Days are filled with menial tasks: cooking, gardening, and walks that take him through the trees that surround his cottage. In the evening he reads his mail. Most are invitations to speak at official functions or requests for interviews--these he deletes after a cursory glance. The rest are vistapes from old friends.

 _"We're sorry you couldn't make it to Tara's birthday party. Thank you for the gift, she loves it. Tarrant bought himself a new ship, did you hear? Oh, and Soolin's securities business is doing well. How are you, Blake? We would love to hear from you."_

He never replies.

At bedtime he reads; real books made of paper and ink. He likes the noise the pages make when he turns them. He likes the covers and the binding. He likes falling asleep with one propped up on his chest.

It is a comfort.

Each day is like the rest except Sunday. That is the day Avon comes to visit. Avon, who now owns one of the largest corporations on Earth. Six months previous he appeared on Blake's doorstep. They had Sunday brunch and did not speak. Avon stayed to watch the sun go down, then he left.

In six months the script had not changed.

Blake wonders about it sometimes, but it does not bother him enough to ask.

Then one day, everything is different.

It starts simply as an ache in his body that makes it difficult to get out of bed. Then he starts to tire more easily; too much exercise makes him dizzy. When he wakes gasping for breath, cold despite the warm summer night, he knows it is more than age.

He goes to the med-center in London dome and tests are done.

"I'm sorry," the doctor says--he's a young man, certainly not old enough to have fought in the war.

Then it is like a broken transmission, static and a few words: dying... nothing we can do... eighteen months.

Blake goes home, drinks a glass of brandy, and laughs until his sides hurt.

*****

Avon arrives at his usual time and Blake, instead of ushering him in, offers him a seat on the porch. Avon frowns but sits.

He stares out in the forest, the leaves rustle with the wind and he can hear a bird singing in the distance. He loves this silence; it fills him with a sense of contentment. He feels quiet.

"I'm dying," he whispers, then says it more loudly, "I'm dying."

He turns and Avon is sitting frozen, eyes staring blindly, hands gripping the armrests of the chair.

"I put death out of my mind when we won the war. As if I had somehow become invincible. I forgot that death comes to everyone. I--"

"Stop it. Stop it, Blake." Avon stands and walks over to him. With shaking fingers he touches Blake's mouth and traces his lips.

He doesn't move, he can't. He is like a taut string: when Avon touches him, he vibrates and hums.

Then Avon replaces the fingers with his mouth. And his lips are soft against Blake's and his breath is warm and damp. Blake breathes him in, tastes Avon's mouth with his tongue.

Warm and damp and Blake is humming...humming. He curls his fingers against the nape of Avon's neck, brushing the soft hair. Somehow Avon fits into him, melts into him, shifts to accommodate him.

The kiss does not stop, not even when their lips part.

*****

Sunrise looks good on Avon. The emerging light chases the shadows from his body, revealing the nuances of skin. Blake runs his tongue over a smooth, shiny scar on his shoulder until Avon makes a sound of protest. Then he finds the dip and curve of his lower back and presses fervent bites that transform into soft nuzzles, then even softer kisses.

Without meaning to his mouth travels lower, and soon he's kissing between Avon's buttocks, licking at the opening there, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. Avon is pushing back, moaning and grasping at the sheets. Blake penetrates him with little stabbing motions until Avon says his name.

"Blake." And it is a plea, it is a demand.

When he finally acquiesces with his cock, Avon's body shines from the blue of the morning sky.

*****

By mid-morning they are too exhausted to do anything but lay entwined. Avon strokes his hair and murmurs softly into his ear of specialists and medicine.

He only half-listens; he is intent on the sunlight streaming in through the window. He does not tell Avon there will be no specialists, no medicine.

The only witness he wants to his death is the sunrise.


End file.
